


236 - Test Tube Babies

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Dad Van, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 17:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts “…the idea of Van and his gf/wife/etc etc not being able to have kids. Like they’re trying for a baby but it’s just not happening and BAM! TESTTUBE BABY 2.0! They try IVF and the miracle of baby McCann is born, a quite literal mini Van.” from @emmernems and “it’s modern day and reader casually sings lyrics to Van from his songs that relate to their situation.”  and “reader is super into health and fitness and is a total gym bunny?”





	236 - Test Tube Babies

Each store bought pregnancy test was discarded in the public trash can on the corner of your street. There was no use in both you and Van having constantly shattered hearts. The stupid plastic sticks all said the same thing, like a tragic groundhog day. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe dozens of them were wrong. Maybe every brand you had purchased over the course of a whole year and a bit were dead wrong.

In the beginning, neither of you were worried. But fear set in in you first, then Van. He'd watch you from the other side of the room pretending you really did care about the positioning of throw pillows and that all the jars in the fridge faced forward. He'd bite his nails and huff to himself, before escaping the sad to have a smoke alone outside. 

Nobody wanted to be the one to bring it up, make it real. Van was a true optimist and you knew he'd just keep hoping and trying before he was willing to admit that his family dream wasn't going to pan out like all his others. You were simply terrified.

It shouldn't happen to anyone, but logically it really shouldn't have happened to you. Hardly anything that you ate was processed or heavy in saturated fat, refined sugar, or high sodium. You genuinely liked kale. The gym was almost your favourite place to be, second only to wherever Van was. The healthy lifestyle came easy to you but was pretty much incomprehensible to Van. 

You'd stopped making him try to go for jogs with you and he'd stopped trying to guilt you into staying in bed instead of going to the gym. Regardless of your vastly different approaches to health, you were happy together. More than happy enough to start a family; it should have been easy to do that. 

…

For months the disappointment and unhappiness grew and swelled until it was an almost tangible thing. It was a monster living with you, hidden in the shadows under Van's eyes and sleeping on the cold side of the pillow. The monster was battled daily by you both in various ways. Van made music. Sometimes, small, sad notes would be audible through the darkness of the house. Sometimes heavily distorted guitar would shake the walls and make you cry. He smoked a pack a day, played Fifa less, and brooded more. None of those things even wounded the monster. If anything, the tragic songs and toxic smoke gave it power. But of course you'd think that. High and mighty, you considered your own coping strategies as pure and constructive.

Before the sun could announce another babyless day, you'd be up and running laps of the blocks around your house. You'd keep going until your lungs screamed for you to stop and your legs moved like jelly. Through the front door, you'd collapse on the wooden floorboards of the mud room and pant loudly enough to drag Van out of bed and to your side. In the shower, you'd let him try to take the pain away through your skin. Kisses to the neck, collarbones, finger tips made the monster smug.

The kitchen bench was covered with bottles of vitamins and natural remedies. Anything even slightly correlated to pregnancy was consumed. You had become obsessive about it, Googling recipes, potions, and old wives' tales. That's what you'd do while you waited for your legs to get feeling back, then you'd be on the treadmill unless Van was going somewhere. You were both afraid to leave each other’s sides for long.

The monster was real. It was more alive than your so deeply wanted baby. You'd started to think that maybe it would never die. Then, over an unusually quiet Sunday roast dinner at Mary and Bernie's, the subject was broached. Bernie cleared his throat as you pushed away a plate of only half eaten food.

"Well, 'ave you even seen a doctor yet?" he asked.

Instead of replying, you burst into tears. Van slid from the dining chair to his knees and wrapped himself around your waist.

"I suggest we rethink some things," Van whispered to you. You'd forgotten about that, about the game of reciting his lyrics to each other. It made you smile. When had little things like that stopped? You'd lost yourselves in the pain.

It was a brutal introduction to reality, but a needed catalyst from the ever-practical Bernard McCann.

The following week you sat in the ugly, scratchy doctor surgery chairs and went through everything. As you recounted it all and the doctor softly spoke through the plan, the tests, the options, you tuned in and out and hoped Van was listening intently. It was one of his best innate qualities, being a good listener and retaining information. His leg bounced in the chair and his hand squeezed yours hard.

…

Van was a test tube baby and like all test tube babies, he was a beautiful one. The idea of IVF made Van happy, the happiest he'd been in a long time. When you spoke to Mary and Bernie, they obviously believed in it, but there was hesitation in their faces that reminded you that it wasn't a sure thing. They got (sort of) lucky with Van; their final round of IVF was successful. They couldn't afford any more attempts after that. You had more money than they did though. Decades had gone by too; the process had been refined and surely more effective now. It was decided and the referral process began.

Timelines were established and Van worked out how to put Catfish on hold without really putting Catfish on hold. Without studio sessions and press and touring and recording and meetings, Van was home, properly home. That being such a definitive thing seemed to calm the monster's storm. The hope meant a great deal. It was something for you and Van to latch on to. It could be a truth about the world - maybe, just maybe, there would be a baby. You were healthy, after all. Young. Willing to do everything instructed by the doctor. The hope created cooperation and synergy, and no darkness could compete with that.

With time to kill, Van started to follow you around more. He'd walk with Mary around the block and he'd cheer you on as you lapped him twice, thrice, four times over. He made you playlists for when you exercised and he even agreed to try the gym again. "I want you to exhaust me," he said with a grin. He looked all lanky and weird in gym clothes; not at all the black-clad boy you'd fallen in love with, but it really just made you love him more. Van was stepping out of his comfort zone for you.

One of the trainers laughed as she tested his weight limits and endurance. "If you didn't smoke so much, you'd be in pretty good shape," she said, watching Van hack up his lungs.

"He's getting a little belly from all the chips and gravy," you added.

"Oi!" Van called, offended.

"It's cute! Come here," you ordered. Van stood in front of you, chest puffed out and tummy pressed to the shirt. You poked him, eliciting a giggle. "I make you do that shit you never do,"

"Yeah… it's you I detest,"

"Sure," you replied into his chest. He was wet with sweat and somehow you still wanted him.

The gym was the limit though. As you ordered a protein shake that was a deep green colour, Van crossed the road and got a coffee and donut from the bakery.

"Wanna bite?" he asked you, holding the pink sprinkled pastry out. "One bite ain't gonna hurt you."

He gave you a trip to the gym. You gave him a bite of a donut. And the world, well, it gave you a baby.

The first round had worked.

…

"They'll get you," you whispered. It was dark in the bedroom and you weren't sure if Van was asleep. He didn’t reply at first, then he understood.

"I was a test tube baby, that's why nobody gets me,"

"Yeah. But they'll be one too, so they'll get you. Like that girl from Australia that you've met a couple of times. The one with the shirt,"

"Grace,"

"How do you remember all their names?"

"Dunno. Don't. Remember some," he replied, and although you couldn't see the shrug, you could feel it in the bed next to you.

"Right. Well. Test Tube Baby Club will grow by one," you said, the fondness in your voice thick.

"They'll be the best of us all."

You fell silent then, realising that you shouldn't speak with such certainty. It was still early days, just small cells and big hopes.

…

The pregnancy was a shock and a half. You'd assumed the healthy state of your body would ensure a smooth nine months. No morning sickness. No cravings. No swelling feet. Easy sleep. Of course, you were dead wrong. The mornings were sick. The food was craved. The feet swelled. The sleep was restless. Van made it better though. Van and the infinite gratefulness you felt about being pregnant at all. You'd never known such humility. It saved you from complaining too much.

To allows days to pass quickly and without hassle, you and Van made an effort to make the lyric game more frequently played. A point system was established and the notepad on top of the microwaved kept a tally of who was better at integrating the lines into conversation.

"Anything you need at any time at all, I want you to phone me," Van said as he left the house alone to go hang with Larry for a couple of hours.

"I don't think things through," you laughed when Van gagged at the weird mix of fries, ice cream, and pickles you were eating. "Seriously, I just… made it. Are you sure you don't want to try it?"

"I love it when you do that," Van whispered to your belly when the baby started to kick. "God, I love it when you do that."

…

3 years later.

Twins. You'd found out later than average, but when the news dropped, Van lost his absolute shit. "Two!" he yelled, punching the air. "Twice the amount of babies! Twice!" As they grew, they became an interesting study in personality. Loui and Harper were as different to each other as you and Van were.

Loui, older by only five minutes, was exactly what people had always imagined when they thought of Baby McCann. He came out screaming and hadn't stopped in three years. Every single way a baby could make noise, he did. He laughed and cried and yelled and hit walls and pots and pans. He showed an aptitude for music, but maybe that was just because whenever he wanted to create sound, Van put a xylophone or teeny tiny guitar in his lap. His first word was 'hello' (but it sounded like ‘ello’) and whenever he made eye contact with someone, whether it was friend, stranger, or someone on television, he'd stick his little hand out and yell a bubbly "Ello!"

Harper was the mini you. He was loud too but channelled a lot of his energy into movement. As Loui sat on the floor shaking a tambourine, Harper would run circles around his big brother, dancing to his music. He loved smoothies, especially any coloured bright green or orange. He preferred the outdoors, where Loui liked being inside where the people were. He was more perceptive to his environment and other people than his twin, and in the same way you were. His first word was 'Mummy' and Van was cut neither of them said his title first. 

The sunshine of Loui and Harper was so absolute, so life-affirming and pure, that you completely forgot about the year and a bit you spent looking after a monster named Fear. You forgot you ever cared about throw cushions and jars and counting calories. You forgot about the universe pre-baby twins. Whenever people asked, "Do you miss date nights?" or "God, I just want to be able to go to the bathroom alone for once; don't you?" You'd make an expression that was the facial equivalent of writing 'lol' when you were not laughing out loud. Pretending, pretending, because you never felt those things. Date nights were family nights and nothing was better than that. Harper's fingers wriggling under the bathroom door while Loui yelled at you from the other side made you laugh.

When you met Van, the world before was erased. When you had Loui and Harper, it happened again. You were so, so fucking happy.

One night, after putting the twins to bed and letting Mary sleep with them, you and Van crawled under the covers of your own. Parenthood had changed you both in ways you had never anticipated. One of the changes included literally smelling different. Pressed close to Van's chest, your head resting between his collarbones with his head on yours, you breathed him in. It was still him, but something different. Sugar cookies. Warm milk. Grass. Something indescribable.

"I love you so much, Y/N," Van said, hugging you closer to him. "You're simpatico,"

"Mmm. Good one,"

"And you're cuts above," he added.

"And I don't own worries or a chest full of heartache anymore,"

"No… No, you don't."

You went to say something, another lyric, but there was giggling outside. The hallway light was always left on and under your bedroom door shadows were being cast by three-year-old bodies. Van started to snigger, forcing your head into a bounce. You sat up and turned the lamp on. Waiting to see what they were up to, you stayed quiet. Then, Mary scratching at your door and Loui trying to hush her. She barked in protest and both boys burst into hysterics. Van rolled out of bed and opened the door. Mary shot straight through and jumped onto your bed, immediately making a circled spot for herself on the end. Harper was on his back kicking and punching up at the air. Loui was standing there looking caught out.

"Where are you two meant to be?" he asked in his best dad voice.

"Bed!" Harper yelled.

"And where are you?"

"Not bed!" he yelled, smiling because he knew he was right in his answers. Like Van, he didn't much care he was wrong in his actions. It was probably him that lead Loui out into the hall. Suddenly, Harper rolled over and stood up, wobbled on the spot for a second, then quickly waddled into your bedroom. He climbed up onto the bed and crawled across it to be next to you. He pulled the blankets over his legs then patted them flat. Looking back over at Van, he gave him a thumbs up. "Bed," he said calmly. God, he was just like his dad. Harper looked up at you. You pulled him into your lap and kissed his forehead.

"Well, you're not wrong, kid," you told him. He giggled and cuddled into you.

"He's too smart for his own good," Van said with a grin and a shake of the head. He looked back down at Loui. "What about you, darlin'? You want in?" Loui nodded and reached up with twinkly fingers. Van picked him up and carried him into bed on his hip.

All bundled up in bed with your family, your long-awaited and perfect family, you were content.

Harper started to sing. He made up tunes and words all the time. Van sat up and took him from you. One twin on each leg, both of them resting their little bodies and heads on his chest, Van wrapped his arms around them and kissed the tops of their heads. You watched them carefully.

"All I ever really want is you," you said.

Van thought for a moment, then kissed their heads again. They were watching each other. Loui was poking gentle dots into Harper's face.

"I loved you then, I love you now."


End file.
